


Morning Fog

by Fawx



Series: Opia [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, F/M, Friendly Rivalry, Illustrated Fic, Non-canon-compliant, Rivalry Romance, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, pedantic shitlords, technically not undefeated, ten pages of these two being assholes at each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9796313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fawx/pseuds/Fawx
Summary: Pre- and Post-Alone, modern au, not strictly canon compliantHawke and Fenris have a complicated relationship built on competition, trust, and constantly questioning each other's beliefs. For example, Fenris believes that offering your hand in marriage to anyone who can defeat you in single combat is a stupid idea. Hawke has some questions about that.





	

[ **Morning Fog** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvt7foLIneE)

****

**-**

"I heard the most interesting rumor about you today."

Hawke didn't stop her routine, but did glance over at Fenris as she rolled a practice stick over her shoulders. He stood at the edge of the mat, leaning on his own stick, regarding her with the flat, disapproving stare he usually got when he'd heard of one of her really spectacularly dumb decisions. The last time she'd seen that face, she'd just bought a mine. This time, she’d done something stupid on a far more personal level.

"Am I going to have to call an intervention on this gossip addiction you've suddenly acquired?" She asked breezily, twirling the stick around her fingers in a complex loop.

"It's a passing illness," said Fenris, "hardly consequential, unlike this rumor."

"We can get you help, Fenris. This is a _fixation_ , but it can be _fixed_. I'm your friend and I want to-"

"Help,” he interrupted, covering a smirk, “by running me through the logic of how issuing an open challenge to - Maker, I hope I heard this wrong - 'anyone who can defeat you in combat' for your hand as a _deterrent_ to marriage."

Hawke's hands faltered and the stick went wild for just a moment. She caught it before it could do any damage, snatching it close to her chest as she tried to make it not look too obvious that she wanted to curl up into a little ball and roll away. "W-well I mean, you did hear it wrong..."

Fenris crossed his arms, putting his head to one side. "So you _didn't_ offer up matrimony as a prize in a free-for-all brawl?"

"What I _said_ was 'anyone worthy of defeating me in _single_ combat.' There's a pretty stark difference, not like I'm just going to take on a bunch of people at once-"

"Hawke, that is the kind of decision an _idiot_ makes."

She squinted at him, belligerently thumbing her nose.  "It sounds like you’re trying to say a specific thing to me right now, like maybe you’re hinting at something." She didn’t blame him, of course. Without knowing the details, the whole thing _did_ sound like an amazing public fuckup of epic proportions. But Hawke knew what she’d said, and had been far less cavalier than most people realized.

Even so, she kept up the facade as Fenris squinted back at her. Hawke wondered if she stared at him silently long enough, maybe he'd get bored and drop it. Not like that tactic had ever once worked all the times she’d tried it, but hope springs eternal and the last measures of desperate women-

She barely had time to defend as his arm snaked out, his stick slapping against hers with a loud _THWACK_ just centimeters before it would have made contact with her backside. She yelped indignantly, hopping out of his reach. He struck again, this time at her feet, making her trip and scramble out of the way. He feinted and then struck again as she moved to defend, the stick rapping hard against the back of her knuckles, making her drop her weapon. Then finally, his stick came down sharply against the top of her head. It didn't hurt, but she dropped face down on the mat, mortified.

Fenris had barely moved from his spot, where he now stood idly spinning the stick as she had done earlier.

"Didn't take you for a contender," she quipped at the floor. Fenris snorted.

"I never said I was, I just wanted to prove a point." He walked over and offered his hand. "You offer yourself to the unworthy, Hawke." He paused a beat, and then a coy smile crossed his face. "Consider this an intervention."

She grumbled, but took his hand anyway, using the leverage to stand. Stupid Fenris and his stupid smiles and being better than her at fighting only when it was crucial to making her look stupid. "I know for a fact you didn't come over here just to pass judgment on my poor life decisions."

"No, but it's always fun. I was-"

"Just looking for an excuse to be mean to me," she sniffed dramatically, wiping at the corners of her completely dry eyes.

"That too," he chuckled, "but more to the point I was-"

"Being hurtful, and uncharming, probably the least good best friend ever-"

"I'm meeting my sister. Tomorrow. She’s finally made it to Kirkwall."

Hawke choked on the fake sob she'd been building up, coughing into her arm as she stared at Fenris' face incredulously. "Holy shit, really?"

Fenris gave a solemn nod.

"What time? Do you want me to have some people hang around in case anything happens?"

“I-” He took a breath, and then sagged, as if a weight had been taken from him. “Honestly, I hadn’t even thought to ask about that. Thank you.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Not a problem. What else did you need?”

“I hoped you would go with me.”

Hawke blinked at him, surprised. Not once in three years had he made a request of her time, not since _that_ night. Sure, he’d followed wherever she asked, and had only put up a perfunctory show of avoiding her for a few days before it had gotten too annoying for either of them to deal with any longer. But even then their friendship, which had always been held together with string, duct tape, and pure cussed stubbornness, had been more than a little strained in an awkward direction.

So it wasn’t unreasonable that her first reaction was to ask “Why? Not that I won’t but...”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. An awkward silence stretched between them until finally he couldn’t take it any more and muttered, “I… would feel safer with you there.”

She’d seen him take a sledgehammer to someone’s ribcage with more gentleness and delicacy than the bullseye strike just those few words laid on her heart. She barely managed to snatch ahold of decorum, striking a cocky pose to avoid looking too much like she’d just had An Emotion because of him.

“Sure, I’ll go,” she said, favoring him with a wicked grin, “But only if you’re willing to say that again in front of a witness.”

 

\---

 

No one had wanted to touch Danarius’ corpse. In the end, Hawke had called in a favor with one of Meeran’s contacts. She and Varric had watched together in solemn silence as two creepy fellows in patched-up hazmat suites scraped up the Magister’s remains to be ported off for some dark purpose elsewhere.

It was a little disappointing. Maybe because she’d devoted a bit more time than necessary over the years to idle fantasies about burying the old bastard in garbage and setting the whole heap on fire. Maybe it was because Fenris wasn’t there to share the morbid satisfaction of watching a lifelong enemy’s earthly vessel get hauled off with less decorum than your average roadkill. Maybe if his sister hadn’t insisted on being just _that_ much more of a bitch before running off he would have stuck around, but Hawke knew that sometimes enough was just too fucking much.

At least he knew he wasn’t alone. Or she’d tried to convey that, through the most awkwardly restrained shoulder pat she’d ever given in her life. She’d wanted to do or say something more profound or helpful, but she hadn’t a clue where to start.

“Leave him be, Hawke.” Varric said, pulling her out of her own thoughts. She chewed the inside of her lip, glancing over at him.

“I’m that transparent right now?”

“Hawke, you’re cellophane. Let’s talk.” He motioned for her to come to his office. She followed, knowing what was to come and dreading it. She hated having to be practical sometimes.

The conversation was brief, and all things she needed to hear but didn’t want to just at that moment. But Varric had given her sound advice, worded about fifty different ways until she agreed that yes, going home and getting some sleep was really the best course of action, and trying to bother Fenris when he wanted to be alone after a traumatic event was stupid and also probably very selfish.

But even if it _was_ selfish, she just… couldn’t let it lie. Fenris had been hurt - _badly_ hurt - and she couldn’t hold herself away from that. After all, in spite of _everything_ , hadn’t he been there after her Mother had died? He hadn’t the first clue of what to do and he’d still been there for her. Returning the favor was the least she could do.

It was nearly sunrise when she finally caved, but nonetheless she stuck a six pack of beer and a couple frozen pizzas into a grocery sack, carrying it over her shoulder as she walked into the morning fog.

She doubted Fenris had slept at all. One of the many unfortunate traits they shared; sleep never came easy after nights like this one had been, so she was unsurprised when she heard the rhythmic sounds of displaced air and feet on foam practice mats when she entered the mansion’s foyer. She followed the noise to the gym, where Fenris was putting himself through the same routine she had been practicing days before.

The routine was not complex; just a quick, steady succession of blocks and attacks. It looked more like an elaborate dance than anything else, more meditative than serving as any kind of workout. She’d been fucking around when she’d done it earlier; but Fenris looked like he’d been doing it for hours, swept up in muscle memory.

He caught sight of her in the gym’s mirror wall. Breaking his routine, he stepped away from the center of the mat and jerked his head towards the rack where more practice sticks hung. Hawke nodded in return, set down the grocery sack, and stripped off her jacket, shirt, and shoes. She hadn’t bothered to redress before coming over; the pajama bottoms and sports bra would be more than serviceable for this.

Hawke stretched briefly before tapping a stick into the air, catching it at a spin as she turned to face Fenris. “Ready?”

He nodded once in reply.

They dropped into defensive poses as if choreographed, sticks down and crossed at the tip as they circled each other on the mat. Many hundreds of times they’d begun with this same routine, like the smalltalk preamble to an uncomfortable conversation. The sticks clacked together as they performed the usual opening attack-and-counter; hissed as they slid back down into crossed position. Fenris and Hawke circled each other again.

There had come a point, some years ago, that Fenris and Hawke ceased to fight when they sparred. In the early part of their relationship, they’d been neck and neck in everything; challenging each other over the smallest issues, going out of their way to one-up each other at every turn. Growing closer in their competition, and impossibly more powerful. They’d honed their abilities on the whetstone of each other’s skill, to the point that titles like ‘Reaver’ or ‘Archmage’ ceased to have any meaning on the mat. It was no longer sensible (or practical, or _safe_ ) for them to spar for real, not if anyone wanted Kirkwall to still be standing after.

Merrill had suggested the light practice staves she’d used growing up among the Dalish. She’d shown them the precise, dance-like steps, patiently guiding them through each meditative routine. Of course, they’d turned even _that_ into a competition, daring each other on everything from ‘who could master the routine first’ to ‘how many can you do in sequence without screwing up’ to any number of other little trials they made up for fun.

But then, over time, the routines had become more than just a dance. It had become a kind of conversation, with it’s own little rules for etiquette and rituals of propriety. They could have entire debates without uttering a single word and still end the discussion with a clear victor.

Fenris snaked right, then left, bringing the stick around in a quick arc, clattering against her defense like a drumbeat. Hawke could read the intent behind the move: he was anxious, directionless, and _angry_. They circled again; Hawke maintained her defensive stance, keeping her own thoughts in check for now.

They circled for another long moment. He wasn’t just angry, but _pissed._ She hadn’t been able to tell off the mat, but now in close quarters she could really see how straight livid he was. Not at her, of course. Neither of them would be on the mat if this was personal. But his defense was nearly air-tight, and that meant she would have to pick at him until he was ready to talk.

Hawke stepped into an attack, spinning into a routine that prodded the tiny cracks in his defenses. He danced back, countering her, but not rallying his defenses. _He wants to talk, but he’s holding back. Why?_ Hawke wondered.

Fenris provided no answer. Instead he kept her on the defensive, attacking in rapid succession. It was like watching someone scream into the void, except Hawke was the void and the screaming was punctuated by whacks with a big ugly stick. But Fenris needed to get it out of his system, and it wasn’t like she couldn’t keep up with him.

Hawke let it go on a few moments before ducking around a lunge to strike at his back. She changed her mind halfway and adjusted her angle of attack, prodding the end of the stick sharply against Fenris’ left buttcheek. He tripped forward but caught his balance with a surprised grunt, glaring at her as he righted himself.

“This seems more like a ‘use your words’ situation,” she said, leaning her stick on her shoulder. She gestured at his own weapon with her elbow. “You grip that thing any tighter it’s going to snap in half.”

Fenris blinked, looking down at his hand. The wood around the grip did indeed look like it was starting to strain under pressure. He scowled, his hand not relaxing in the slightest.

“Or I could play billiards with your butt some more,” Hawke suggested, raising an eyebrow. Fenris looked at her sharply, his expression turning a few degrees chillier. His hand did relax a tiny bit, however.

“ _Festus bei umau canavarum,_ ” he growled, looking away.

“Just doing my job, being your friendly neighborhood pain in the ass,” she said airily, completely lost as to what he’d said.

“It _means_ ‘you will be the death of me,’” he snapped, biting off each word like a curse.

“Wow, I got it right and I didn’t even try,” Hawke began, but Fenris cut off whatever she may have said next, lunging into an attack pattern she had mentally named the ‘shut up and let me say my piece you unbelievable bitch’ routine. She dodged the practiced strikes, the routine ending with her standing politely at the very edge of the mat, hands gripping the stick behind her back like an attentive baton-twirler, only barely suppressing the urge to make an exaggerated innocent face.

Fenris paced the center of the mat again, head down, hands tight. “I asked for your help years ago, and I trusted you to have my back,” he snarled. “And you did, you always have. Danarius is dead; Hadriana is dead, and I am _finally_ free _._ But it doesn’t feel _right._ It feels like..” He grasped for words, seeming almost desperate to find the right ones.

“The wine of victory tastes like ashes?” Hawke suggested. Fenris nodded emphatically, pointing in her direction.

“Yes! _Exactly_ that, how did you know?”

Hawke eased her stance, twirling the practice stick around her fingers again. “Because what you’re feeling is post-vengeance depression. I’ve been there. And that was a quote from a book we’ve both read. Besides which,” she spun the stick around to point at Fenris’ face as she struck a cool pose, “you’ve been free the whole time, Fenris!”

He scoffed and swatted the stick away, but even as he did Hawke stage-whispered “Six whoooole yearssss.” He shook his head, waving an arm dismissively at her.

“Oh yes, platitudes are _so_ easy,” he grumbled, but the fire of his anger had already begun to cool. Almost as an afterthought he murmured, “You’re not responsible for my misery, why am I angry with you?”

She ducked her head, laughing softly. “Fenris, we both know if you were actually angry with me neither of us would be on the mat.”

“That is true.”

“You’re angry at Varania,” she suggested. He tensed immediately, and nodded.

“That is also true,” he sighed. “I thought… Finding her would open up a whole new world, or if nothing else give a little closure. But now she’s gone, and Danarius is dead. I can’t get any of it back.” He looked at the practice stick in his hand, his reflection in the mirror, and then at Hawke. “What do I do now?”

Hawke blinked, pointing at herself. “You’re asking _me_? Giselle Hawke? Queen of Notoriously Bad Decisions?”

“Your bad decisions somehow always manage to work out in your favor,” he pointed out. “You must be doing _something_ right. At least you aren’t addicted to hatred; I’ve been swallowing that poison all on my own.”

Hawke sucked in a breath through her teeth, pulling an exaggeratedly concerned face. “Oh, that’s a good point. Where are you going to get your hate fix now?”

“You’re the drug dealer, you tell me,” he quipped, not bothering to dodge as she whacked his arm with her stick for the slight. He flinched for effect. “I deserved that.”

“Don’t be mean! I’ve been a law-abiding citizen for…” she calculated on her fingers, “a whole six months. Oh, wait, no, last night we probably broke at least one law.”

“Which one? Murder?” Fenris asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Littering,” Hawke said. “I got the remains hauled away, but I’m not sure we won’t see a fine from The Hanged Man for leaving trash all over their beautiful floor.”

“That floor hasn’t been clean since before color television.” Fenris said, stepping away from the center of the mat, closer to Hawke. She rocked back and forth on her heels, giving him a breezy, nonchalant grin.

“Like I said, we left trash all over their beautiful floor,” she said, waving her free hand as if wiping away the last bit of Danarius’ toxic presence from the air. “I’m sure in a week we’ll have done some other mad thing to make everyone forget about it.”

“You’ve doubled your quota of mad things for the week already,” he said under his breath, not quite low enough for her to not hear.

“Don’t tell me you’re still concerned about that open challenge nonsense!” She laughed, then stopped herself as the expression on Fenris’ face went from sheepish to legitimate concern. He frowned, realizing his face had betrayed him, and looked away. “Fenris?”

He seemed torn, as if caught between wanting to look her in the face and wanting to blind himself to avoid ever having to make eye contact again. For a moment, he was the picture of pure, utter misery. It seemed as if even the slightest nudge could break him.

So Hawke reached out and poked him in the side, making him jump slightly. “Come on,” she urged gently. “You aren’t seriously worried about that, are you?”

Fenris shook his head, letting out a soundless laugh that hissed through his teeth. “Hawke you have… no idea,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. He looked ready to bolt at any second, like he might have already if she wasn’t in the direct path to the door.

“Then give me a clue?”

“I already said before...” he began, but stopped, scrubbing agitatedly at his face for a moment before letting out a long, unhappy sigh. He brought his hands together in front of his face, then looked at Hawke. “I have absolutely no right to feel the way I do about this.”

“You’re doing a fine job of feeling however you do anyway, might as well share the misery,” Hawke pointed out. He shot her an exasperated look, a smile nonetheless pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“You are a _damnable_ woman.”

“Something’s _going_ to be damned if you don’t quit stalling and tell me what’s wrong already!”

That seemed to shake him loose. “I can’t stand the idea of some… unworthy, random bastard taking you away because you’re just stubborn enough to stick to your word if someone beats you,” he confessed miserably. “After _everything else_ that happened yesterday, for some reason the thought of that stupid challenge blowing up in your face scares me more than anything right now.”

“Oh,” said Hawke, feeling that sledgehammer-to-the-chest sensation once again. “Is that all.”

“Well!” He threw up his hands in a broad shrug. “I suppose? What else can be said? I’ve lost everything from my past, and my future is uncertain. All I have is the present, and the present is you doing crazy, stupid shit _as usual_ , but instead of the crazy, stupid shit that nearly gets you killed, it’s crazy, stupid shit that could get you married off to some- hey, what?”

Hawke cut him off mid-rant by gently rapping her stick on top of his head to get his attention. He rubbed absently at the spot, glaring at her in annoyance.

“You know how I’m a pedantic piece of shit most of the time, right?” She asked, resting her stick back on her shoulder.

Fenris nodded.“I’d say that’s one of your major defining characteristics.”

Hawke smiled, regarding him for a quiet moment. At face value, the ‘Challenge’ had only been meant to keep the few people sending serious marriage proposals to The Champion at arm’s length, if not further back. Sure, she could lie and say that she hadn’t once considered the possibility that Fenris would actually take her up on the challenge, despite the fact that she’d rigged the game exclusively in his favor. She could lie and say she hadn’t been carrying a torch for the better part of six years, belligerently hanging on to their weird friendship and hoping maybe he’d get a clue of his own worth, and maybe even figure out that he stood head and shoulders above anyone - _everyone_ \- else as far as she was concerned.

She had almost given it up as a lost cause. Yet Fenris always did manage to find a way to blind her with some new facet of himself at the most unexpected intervals.

Hawke beamed a smug grin at him. “Then allow me to point out that my _exact words_ were ‘Anyone who is _worthy_ may challenge me for my hand in single combat.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “So, if anyone off the street were to challenge you…”

“I would reject them. Flames, I can count the number of people I consider worthy on one hand, with fingers left over,” she admitted, realizing just how damning that statement was the second it had jumped out of her. A hot, embarrassed flush began to crawl up the back of her neck.

Fenris tilted his head, his flat expression changing not one iota. “Oh, is that so?”

She nodded solemnly.

“How very Qunari of you,” he said dryly.

Hawke let out a stuttering laugh, thumbing absently at the fresh scar above the hem of her pants. “If I learned anything from the Arishok, it was how to better pick my fights.”

Another silence stretched itself between them. Nervousness was building up under Hawke’s skin like static. She could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he mulled that over. Even as she reminded herself it would be unfair to even _hope_ , he asked:

“What would happen if _I_ were to challenge you?”

Hawke caught his gaze, and held the stare as she walked back to the middle of the mat. She could see in his eyes that he couldn’t quite believe he’d actually asked that question out loud.

“That depends, Fenris,” she said, dropping into defensive position. “Do you consider yourself worthy?”

Hawke’s pulse hammered in her throat as Fenris joined her at the center of the mat. Neither of them broke eye contact as he mirrored her stance. They began to circle each other once more.

Technically, of course, Fenris had already won the right to his claim. But neither of them cared about that little detail. They moved together, going through more and more complex attacks and counter-attacks, dancing across the room. Hawke kept her attacks light and her defense open, stubbornly holding on to the certainty that Fenris wanted nothing more than to prove another point, or some similarly foolish thing, that him winning would be just as meaningless now as it had been the other day, that-

Fenris surged forward, an attack she should have seen coming. She scrambled to defend, backing up swiftly as he advanced. Her back hit the wall; his stick came down in an overhead attack. She raised her arms to defend, sticks meeting with a hard _clack_ that sent her knuckles slamming hard against the wall as Fenris bore his weight down.

The wooden practice sticks creaked and groaned as they clashed. Hawke grinned at him, arms straining as she held him at bay. He stared back, eyes intent and overbright in a way she hadn’t seen in years, and then only once. _Oh, he’s serious,_ popped into her head just as he leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers in an awkward half-kiss, causing her grin and her grip to falter.

She tried to kiss him back, but he moved away, just enough to growl into her ear, “Are you _letting_ me win?”

Hawke felt a surge of giddy, wild excitement, shoving him back and putting him on the defensive with a flurry of swift attacks. They clashed again, sticks crossed, faces inches apart. “Like you’ve never been in a rigged fight before,” she smirked, planting her feet and refusing to budge. Fenris did the same; even so she could see the tips of his ears had gone red. He knew she’d seen, too - his expression had gone from determined to determined and flustered. Fenris broke away, keeping his guard up as he paced the edge of the mat. Hawke remained in the center, turning to face him as he moved.

“I’m getting the impression I have an unfair advantage over the competition,” he said finally.

Hawke threw back her head and laughed. “ _What_ competition?” She raised a hand, closing the fingers until only her index remained. “Like I said, I can count the worthy on one hand, with fingers left over.” She pointed at his chest, and mimed a shot. “Bang. Worthy opponent, right on the bullseye.”

He let out a soft laugh; the blush had spread from his ears and was blooming over his cheeks. “Get serious,” he said, without any force.

“I _am_ serious,” Hawke replied, stepping into another attack pattern. Slowly this time; Fenris deflected each strike with lazy passes as they moved out of orbit and into each other’s space. Hawke finished the routine, bringing the stick around behind his back; grabbing both ends to pull him close. Not quite touching, but near enough that it would be easy to do so. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do with the rest of your life, now that you’re free. But you know you don’t have to go this alone, right?”

“I put a lot of time and effort into trying to make you hate me for leaving you,” he replied softly. He set his practice stick aside, then took Hawke’s and set it away as well. “I thought it would be better that way.”

“I remember. Kind of a dumb move, in retrospect,” she murmured.

“Well,” he chuckled, “I didn’t expect you stay my friend out of pure spite.”

“That’s how we _became_ friends,” she began to protest, but he stopped her, laying a hand on her cheek, thumb holding her lips closed. Hawke’s heart leaped up into her throat; she hardly noticed she was leaning into his touch as if starved.

“I _know,_ which is why I’m more the fool. I should have asked you to forgive me a long time ago.” He drew nearer, pressing their foreheads together. This close, Hawke was caught in the soft glow of ghostlight in his eyes, breathless as she remembered the last time they’d touched this way. Her arms went around his waist, fingers twining together at the small of his back.

“I remember your touch like it was yesterday,” he murmured, echoing her thoughts. “I should have told you then how I felt. I’ve thought about what I should have said a thousand times over.”

“What would you have said?”

“That I don’t want a life without you in it,” he replied. His free hand slid between them, the tips of his fingers tracing the long scar on her belly, a fresh reminder of how close Fenris’ fear had come to reality. “That nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

Hawke flushed, closing her eyes. It was amazing, how she knew she’d wanted him this whole time, and had never realized just _how much_ she’d wanted him. “I understood,” she said, her voice catching. She swallowed hard, heart still hammering away in her throat, hands shaking as she tried to keep her balance. “I mean, I got it. I _get_ it, why you left. I couldn’t ever hate you for that.”

Fenris caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face to look her in the eyes. “I want you to be a part of my uncertain future,” he murmured, and that was all that needed to be said.

Hawke closed the gap between them, taking the kiss she’d been denied earlier. She put everything she could into it, all the unspoken affection that had been impatiently waiting for an outlet since he’d inspired it within her. Years of built-up interest waiting for him to collect.

They stumbled together into a room off the gym. Rarely used, the furniture was covered in sheets. But there was a bed, and that’s what mattered.

Hawke leaped for the bed. Her back hit the mattress and she bounced, using the leverage to start wriggling out of her pants. Fenris stripped quickly, then climbed in after her, grabbing the waistband of her pajama pants and yanking them away to fly off into some corner of the room. She let out an appreciative hum as his hands roamed up her naked thighs to guide her legs to rest around his waist. He leaned in close, distracting her with soft, light kisses while he slid his fingers over her clit with an appreciative noise of his own. Hawke groaned, hips jolting at the sensation, then rocking with the rhythm of Fenris’ touch as he slid his fingers slowly into her.

Hawke clutched at the sheets beneath them as Fenris teased her, slipping his fingers out again to slide up and swirl around her clit, then back down to repeat the process. The pressure started so light she felt little more than a pleasant buzz - a nice distraction from the fact she could feel his cock hot against her thigh and she was _more_ than ready to ride - but soon enough each pass of his fingers left her a shaking, wet mess while she bit back the urge to beg.

“Fenris,” she gasped, then let out a low, shaking moan as his fingers paused where they were, halfway back to her clit.

“Hawke,” he replied, his voice low and remarkably steady. His fingers moved again, just barely massaging the spot where he’d paused. Hawke sagged against the bed, shivering. Fenris chuckled softly, pressing more kisses against her mouth. His fingers moved again, slipping over her clit. “Use your words.”

“Ah, _fuck,”_ she laughed, reaching between them to wrap a hand around his cock. He let out a hot gasp as she began to stroke him, matching the pace he’d set; drawing her fingers along the shaft, swirling her fingers over the head to mimic his tease.

He shuddered and pitched forward, catching and bracing himself with his free hand. Hawke chuckled at him, nudging his side with her knee. “Two can play this game, hm?”

“Not everything has to be a competi- _ahh, Hawke,_ ” he began to protest, but she moved in close, pressing a kiss to the spot on his jaw he remembered he liked, using the distraction to guide the head of his cock into her. They stilled only for a moment, savoring each other for the space of a few heartbeats until the need was too much to bear.

In a rush their teasing game was abandoned. Fenris gripped Hawke’s thighs as he slid home; Hawke buried her face in his shoulder, hands in turn grasping his hair or splaying over his back as they rocked together. Any words but _yes_ and _there_ and _more_ were useless, but they whispered each other’s names anyway, little prayers caught between kisses and gasps.

They both came quickly. More quickly than either of them would have liked, but even so sighing with relief as they sagged against the bed, tangled together, exhausted.

“I think… I should have taken Varric’s advice and slept before coming over,” Hawke chuckled breathlessly. Fenris laughed as well, low and tired.

“I didn’t sleep either,” he murmured, sleepily drawing his fingers through her hair. “I was too distracted by my thoughts.”

Hawke blinked slowly at him. “You weren’t really having a panic attack over the possibility of me getting married to some stranger, were you?’

He nodded, closed his eyes, and snuggled close. “I absolutely was.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “If the challenge had been for real, I would have wanted you to win.”

“Hm,” was his reply. She thought he might have fallen asleep when he asked, “you don’t really want to marry me, do you?”

Hawke smiled, tightening her arms around him. “Once things settle down, yes. I absolutely do.”

 

-

 

[see the original for the header image here](http://fawxdraws.tumblr.com/post/156516320533/back-to-your-regularly-scheduled-rivalshipping)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is not #spoilers for Undefeated, though it has a lot of similar themes. And a couple of in-jokes you'll only get if you read that beast because i'm a self-referrential POS
> 
> protip: the title links to mood music
> 
> ask me how many times i had to edit the goldang summary


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